Rolf in the Woods

Chapter 59. Van Cortlandt's Drugs

“AIN'T ye feelin' all right?” said Rolf, one bright, calomel morning, as he saw Van Cortlandt preparing his daily physic.

“Why, yes; I'm feeling fine; I'm better every day,” was the jovial reply.

“Course I don't know, but my mother used to say: 'Med'cine's the stuff makes a sick man well, an' a well man sick.”'

“My mother and your mother would have fought at sight, as you may judge. B-u-t,” he added with reflective slowness, and a merry twinkle in his eye, “if things were to be judged by their product, I am afraid your mother would win easily,” and he laid his long, thin, scrawny hand beside the broad, strong hand of the growing youth.

“Old Sylvanne wasn't far astray when he said: 'There aren't any sick, 'cept them as thinks they are,”' said Rolf. “I suppose I ought to begin to taper off,” was the reply. But the tapering was very sudden. Before a week went by, it seemed desirable to go back for the stuff left in cache on the Schroon, where, of course, it was subject to several risks. There seemed no object in taking Van Cortlandt back, but they could not well leave him alone. He went. He had kept time with fair regularity—calomel, rhubarb; calomel, rhubarb; calomel, rhubarb, squills—but Rolf's remarks had sunk into his intelligence, as a red-hot shot will sink through shingles, letting in light and creating revolution.

This was a rhubarb morning. He drank his potion, then, carefully stoppering the bottle, he placed it with its companions in a box and stowed that near the middle of the canoe. “I'll be glad when it's finished,” he said reflectively; “I don't believe I need it now. I wish sometimes I could run short of it all.”

That was what Rolf had been hoping for. Without such a remark, he would not have dared do as he did. He threw the tent cover over the canoe amidships, causing the unstable craft to cant: “That won't do,” he remarked, and took out several articles, including the medicine chest, put them ashore under the bushes, and, when he replaced them, contrived that the medicine should be forgotten.

Next morning Van Cortlandt, rising to prepare his calomel, got a shock to find it not.

“It strikes me,” says Rolf, “the last time I saw that, it was on the bank when we trimmed the canoe.” Yes, there could be no doubt of it. Van must live his life in utter druglessness for a time. It gave him somewhat of a scare, much like that a young swimmer gets when he finds he has drifted away from his floats; and, like that same beginner, it braced him to help himself. So Van found that he could swim without corks.

They made a rapid journey down, and in a week they were back with the load.

There was the potion chest where they had left it. Van Cortlandt picked it up with a sheepish smile, and they sat down for evening meal. Presently Rolf said: “I mind once I seen three little hawks in a nest together. The mother was teaching them to fly. Two of them started off all right, and pretty soon were scooting among the treetops. The other was scared. He says: 'No, mother, I never did fly, and I'm scared I'd get killed if I tried.' At last the mother got mad and shoved him over. As soon as he felt he was gone, he spread out his wings to save himself. The wings were all right enough, and long before he struck the ground, he was flying.”

Chapter 60. Van Cortlandt's Adventure

The coming of Van had compelled the trappers to build a new and much larger cabin. When they were planning it, the lawyer said: “If I were, you, I'd make it twenty by thirty, with a big stone fireplace.”

“Why?”

“I might want to come back some day and bring a friend.”

Rolf looked at him keenly. Here was an important possibility, but it was too difficult to handle such large logs without a team; so the new cabin was made fifteen by twenty, and the twenty-foot logs were very slim indeed. Van Cortlandt took much trouble to fix it up inside with two white birch bedsteads, balsam beds, and basswood mats on the floor.

After the first depression, he had recovered quickly since abandoning his apothecary diet, and now he was more and more in their life, one of themselves. But Quonab never liked him. The incident of the fire-making was one of many which reduced him far below zero in the red man's esteem. When he succeeded with the rubbing-stick fire, he rose a few points; since then he had fallen a little, nearly every day, and now an incident took place which reduced him even below his original low level.

In spite of his admirable perseverance, Van Cortlandt failed in his attempts to get a deer. This was depressing and unfortunate because of the Indian's evident contempt, shown, not in any act, but rather in his avoiding Van and never noticing him; while Van, on his part, discovered that, but for this, that, and the other negligence on Quonab's part, he himself might have done thus and so.

To relieve the situation, Rolf said privately to the Indian, “Can't we find some way of giving him a deer?”

“Humph,” was the voluble reply.

“I've heard of that jack-light trick. Can ye work it?”

“Ugh!”

So it was arranged.

Quonab prepared a box which he filled with sand. On three sides of it he put a screen of bark, eighteen inches high, and in the middle he made a good torch of pine knots with a finely frizzled lighter of birch bark. Ordinarily this is placed on the bow of the canoe, and, at the right moment, is lighted by the sportsman. But Quonab distrusted Van as a lighter, so placed this ancient search-light on the after thwart in front of himself and pointing forward, but quartering.

The scheme is to go along the lake shore about dark, as the deer come to the water to drink or eat lily pads. As soon as a deer is located by the sound, the canoe is silently brought to the place, the torch is lighted, the deer stops to gaze at this strange sunrise; its body is not usually visible in the dim light, but the eyes reflect the glare like two lamps; and now the gunner, with a volley of buckshot, plays his part. It is the easiest and most unsportsmanlike of all methods. It has long been declared illegal; and was especially bad, because it victimized chiefly the does and fawns.

But now it seemed the proper way to “save Van Cortlandt's face.”

So forth they went; Van armed with his double-barrelled shotgun and carrying in his belt a huge and ornamental hunting knife, the badge of woodcraft or of idiocy, according as yon took Van's view or Quonab's. Rolf stayed in camp.

At dusk they set out, a slight easterly breeze compelling them to take the eastern shore, for the deer must not smell them. As they silently crossed the lake, the guide's quick eye caught sight of a long wimple on the surface, across the tiny ripples of the breeze--surely the wake of some large animal, most likely a deer. Good luck. Putting on all speed, he sent the canoe flying after it, and in three or four minutes they sighted a large, dark creature moving fast to escape, but it was low on the water, and had no horns. They could not make out what it was. Van sat tensely gazing, with gun in hand, but the canoe overran the swimmer; it disappeared under the prow, and a moment later there scrambled over the gunwale a huge black fisher.

“Knife,” cried Quonab, in mortal fear that Van would shoot and blow a hole throught the canoe.

The fisher went straight at the lawyer hissing and snarling with voice like a bear.

Van grasped his knife, and then and there began A most extraordinary fight; holding his assailant off as best he could, he stabbed again and again with that long blade. But the fisher seemed cased in iron. The knife glanced off or was solidly stopped again and again, while the fierce, active creature, squirming, struggling, clawing, and tearing had wounded the lawyer in a dozen places. Jab, jab went the knife in vain. The fisher seemed to gain in strength and fury. It fastened on Van's leg just below the knee, and grow/ed and tore like a bulldog. Van seized its throat in both hands and choked with all his strength. The brute at length let go and sprang back to attack again, when Quonab saw his chance and felled it with a blow of the paddle across the nose. It tumbled forward; Van lunged to avoid what seemed a new attack, and in a moment the canoe upset, and all were swimming for their lives.

As luck would have it, they had drifted to the west side and the water was barely six feet deep. So Quonab swam ashore holding onto a paddle, and hauling the canoe, while Van waded ashore, hauling the dead fisher by the tail.

Quonab seized a drift pole and stuck it in the mud as near the place as possible, so they could come again in daylight to get the guns; then silently paddled back to camp.

Next day, thanks to the pole, they found the place and recovered first Van's gun, second, that mighty hunting knife; and learned to the amazement and disgust of all that it had not been out of its sheath: during all that stabbing and slashing, the keen edge was hidden and the knife was wearing its thick, round scabbard of leather and studs of brass.

Chapter 61. Rolf Learns Something from Van

However superior Rolf might feel in the canoe or the woods, there was one place where Van Cortlandt took the lead, and that was in the long talks they had by the campfire or in Van's own shanty which Quonab rarely entered.

The most interesting subjects treated in these were ancient Greece and modern Albany. Van Cortlandt was a good Greek scholar, and, finding an intelligent listener, he told the stirring tales of royal Ilion, Athens, and Pergamos, with the loving enthusiasm of one whom the teachers found it easy to instruct in classic lore. And when he recited or intoned the rolling Greek heroics of the siege of Troy, Rolf listened with an interest that was strange, considering that he knew not a word of it. But he said, “It sounded like real talk, and the tramp of men that were all astir with something big a-doing.”

Albany and politics, too, were vital strains, and life at the Government House, with the struggling rings and cabals, social and political. These were extraordinarily funny and whimsical to Rolf. No doubt because Van Cortlandt presented them that way. And he more than once wondered how rational humans could waste their time in such tomfoolery and childish things as all conventionalities seemed to be. Van Cortlandt smiled at his remarks, but made no answer for long.

One day, the first after the completion of Van Cortlandt's cabin, as the two approached, the owner opened the door and stood aside for Rolf to enter.

“Go ahead,” said Rolf.

“After you,” was the polite reply.

“Oh, go on,” rejoined the lad, in mixed amusement and impatience.

Van Cortlandt touched his hat and went in.

Inside, Rolf turned squarely and said: “The other day you said there was a reason for all kinds o' social tricks; now will you tell me what the dickens is the why of all these funny-do's? It 'pears to me a free-born American didn't ought to take off his hat to any one but God.”

Van Cortlandt chuckled softly and said: “You may be very sure that everything that is done in the way of social usage is the result of common-sense, with the exception of one or two things that have continued after the reason for them has passed, like the buttons you have behind on your coat; they were put there originally to button the tails out of the way of your sword. Sword wearing and using have passed away, but still you see the buttons.

“As to taking off your hat to no man: it depends entirely on what you mean by it; and, being a social custom, you must accept its social meaning.

“In the days of knight errantry, every one meeting a stranger had to suppose him an enemy; ten to one he was. And the sign and proof of friendly intention was raising the right hand without a weapon in it. The hand was raised high, to be seen as far as they could shoot with a bow, and a further proof was added when they raised the vizor and exposed the face. The danger of the highway continued long after knights ceased to wear armour; so, with the same meaning, the same gesture was used, but with a lifting of the hat. If a man did not do it, he was either showing contempt, or hostility for the other, or proving himself an ignorant brute. So, in all civilized countries, lifting the hat is a sign of mutual confidence and respect.”

“Well! that makes it all look different. But why should you touch your hat when you went ahead of me just now?”

“Because this is my house; you are my guest. I am supposed to serve you in reasonable ways and give you precedence. Had I let you open my door for me, it would have been putting you in the place of my servant; to balance that, I give you the sign of equality and respect.”

“H'm,” said Rolf, “'it just shows,' as old Sylvanne sez, 'this yer steel-trap, hair-trigger, cocksure jedgment don't do. An' the more a man learns, the less sure he gits. An' things as hez lasted a long time ain't liable to be on a rotten foundation.'”

Chapter 62. The Charm of Song

With a regular tum ta tum ta, came a weird sound from the sunrise rock one morning, as Van slipped out of his cabin.

“What's he doing, Rolf?”

“That's his sunrise prayer,” was the answer.

“Do you know what it means?”

“Yes, it ain't much; jest 'Oh, thou that walkest in the sky in the morning, I greet thee.”'

“Why, I didn't know Indians had such performances; that's exactly like the priests of Osiris. Did any one teach him? I mean any white folk.”

“No, it's always been the Indian way. They have a song or a prayer for most every big event, sunrise, sunset, moonrise, good hunting, and another for when they're sick, or when they're going on a journey, or when their heart is bad.”

“You astonish me. I had no idea they were so human. It carries me back to the temple of Delphi. It is worthy of Cassandra of Ilion. I supposed all Indians were just savage Indians that hunted till their bellies were full, and slept till they were empty again.”

“H'm,” rejoined Rolf, with a gentle laugh. “I see you also have been doing some 'hair-trigger, steel-trap, cocksure jedgin'.'”

“I wonder if he'd like to hear some of my songs?”

“It's worth trying; anyway, I would,” said Rolf.

That night, by the fire, Van sang the “Gay Cavalier,” “The Hunting of John Peel,” and “Bonnie Dundee.” He had a fine baritone voice. He was most acceptable in the musical circles of Albany. Rolf was delighted, Skookum moaned sympathetically, and Quonab sat nor moved till the music was over. He said nothing, but Rolf felt that it was a point gained, and, trying to follow it up, said:

“Here's your drum, Quonab; won't you sing 'The Song of the Wabanaki?'” But it was not well timed, and the Indian shook his head.

“Say, Van,” said Rolf, (Van Cortlandt had suggested this abbreviation) “you'll never stand right with Quonab till you kill a deer.”

“I've done some trying.”

“Well, now, we'll go out to-morrow evening and try once more. What do you think of the weather, Quonab?”

“Storm begin noon and last three days,” was the brief answer, as the red man walked away.

“That settles it,” said Rolf; “we wait.”

Van was surprised, and all the more so when in an hour the sky grew black and heavy rain set in, with squalls.

“How in the name of Belshazzar's weather bugler does he tell?”

“I guess you better not ask him, if you want to know. I'll find out and tell you later.”

Rolf learned, not easily or at single talk:

“Yesterday the chipmunks worked hard; to-day there are none to be seen.

“Yesterday the loons were wailing; now they are still, and no small birds are about.

“Yesterday it was a yellow sunrise; to-day a rosy dawn.

“Last night the moon changed and had a thick little ring.

“It has not rained for ten days, and this is the third day of easterly winds.

“There was no dew last night. I saw Tongue Mountain at daybreak; my tom-tom will not sing.

“The smoke went three ways at dawn, and Skookum's nose was hot.”

So they rested, not knowing, but forced to believe, and it was not till the third day that the sky broke; the west wind began to pay back its borrowings from the east, and the saying was proved that “three days' rain will empty any sky.”

That evening, after their meal, Rolf and Van launched the canoe and paddled down the lake. A mile from camp they landed, for this was a favourite deer run. Very soon Rolf pointed to the ground. He had found a perfectly fresh track, but Van seemed not to comprehend. They went along it, Rolf softly and silently, Van with his long feet and legs making a dangerous amount of clatter. Rolf turned and whispered, “That won't do. You must not stand on dry sticks.” Van endeavoured to move more cautiously and thought he was doing well, but Rolf found it very trying to his patience and began to understand how Quonab had felt about himself a year ago. “See,” said Rolf, “lift your legs so; don't turn your feet out that way. Look at the place before you put it down again; feel with your toe to make sure there is no dead stick, then wriggle it down to the solid ground. Of course, you'd do better in moccasins. Never brush past any branches; lift them aside and don't let them scratch; ease them back to the place; never try to bend a dry branch; go around it,” etc. Van had not thought of these things, but now he grasped them quickly, and they made a wonderful improvement in his way of going.

They came again to the water's edge; across a little bay Rolf sighted at once the form of a buck, perfectly still, gazing their way, wondering, no doubt, what made those noises.

“Here's your chance,” he whispered.

“Where?” was the eager query.

“There; see that gray and white thing?”

“I can't see him.”

For five minutes Rolf tried in vain to make his friend see that statuesque form; for five minutes it never moved. Then, sensing danger, the buck gave a bound and was lost to view.

It was disheartening. Rolf sat down, nearly disgusted; then one of Sylvanne's remarks came to him: “It don't prove any one a fool, coz he can't play your game.”

Presently Rolf said, “Van, hev ye a book with ye?”

“Yes, I have my Virgil.”

“Read me the first page.”

Van read it, holding the book six inches from his nose.

“Let's see ye read this page there,” and Rolf held it up four feet away.

“I can't; it's nothing but a dim white spot.”

“Well, can ye see that loon out there?”

“You mean that long, dark thing in the bay?”

“No, that's a pine log close to,” said Rolf, with a laugh, “away out half a mile.”

“No, I can't see anything but shimmers.”

“I thought so. It's no use your trying to shoot deer till ye get a pair of specs to fit yer eyes. You have brains enough, but you haven't got the eyesight of a hunter. You stay here till I go see if I have any luck.”

Rolf melted into the woods. In twenty minutes Van heard a shot and very soon Rolf reappeared, carrying a two-year-old buck, and they returned to their camp by nightfall. Quonab glanced at their faces as they passed carrying the little buck. They tried to look inscrutable. But the Indian was not deceived. He gave out nothing but a sizzling “Humph!”

Chapter 63. The Redemption of Van

“WHEN things is looking black as black can be, it's a sure sign of luck coming your way.” so said Si Sylvanne, and so it proved to Van Cortlandt The Moon of the Falling Leaves was waning, October was nearly over, the day of his return to Albany was near, as he was to go out in time for the hunters to return in open water. He was wonderfully improved in strength and looks. His face was brown and ruddy. He had abandoned all drugs, and had gained fully twenty pounds in weight. He had learned to make a fire, paddle a canoe, and go through the woods in semi-silence. His scholarly talk had given him large place in Rolf's esteem, and his sweet singing had furnished a tiny little shelf for a modicum of Quonab's respect. But his attempts to get a deer were failures. “You come back next year with proper, farsight glasses and you'll all right,” said Rolf; and that seemed the one ray of hope.

The three days' storm had thrown so many trees that the hunters decided it would be worth while making a fast trip down to Eagle's Nest, to cut such timber as might have fallen across the stream, and so make an easy way for when they should have less time.

The surmise was quite right. Much new-fallen timber was now across the channel. They chopped over twenty-five trunks before they reached Eagle's Nest at noon, and, leaving the river in better shape than ever it was, they turned, for the swift, straight, silent run of ten miles home.

As they rounded the last point, a huge black form in the water loomed to view. Skookum's bristles rose. Quonab whispered, “Moose! Shoot quick!” Van was the only one with a gun. The great black beast stood for a moment, gazing at them with wide-open eyes, ears, and nostrils, then shook his broad horns, wheeled, and dashed for the shore. Van fired and the bull went down with a mighty splash among the lilies. Rolf and Skookum let off a succession of most unhunterlike yells of triumph. But the giant sprang up again and reached the shore, only to fall to Van Cortlandt's second barrel. Yet the stop was momentary; he rose and dashed into the cover. Quonab turned the canoe at once and made for the land.

A great sob came from the bushes, then others at intervals. Quonab showed his teeth and pointed. Rolf seized his rifle, Skookum sprang from the boat, and a little later was heard letting off his war-cry in the bushes not far away.

The men rushed forward, guns in hand, but Quonab called, “Look out! Maybe he waiting.”

“If he is, he'll likely get one of us.” said Rolf, with a light laugh, for he had some hearsay knowledge of moose.

Covered each by a tree, they waited till Van had reloaded his double-barrelled, then cautiously approached. The great frothing sobs had resounded from time to time.

Skookum's voice also was heard in the thicket, and when they neared and glimpsed the place, it was to see the monster on the ground, lying at full length, dinging up his head at times when he uttered that horrid sound of pain.

The Indian sent a bullet through the moose's brain; then all was still, the tragedy was over.

But now their attention was turned to Van Cortlandt. He reeled, staggered, his knees trembled, his face turned white, and, to save himself from falling, he sank onto a log. Here he covered his face with his hands, his feet beat the ground, and his shoulders heaved up and down.

The others said nothing. They knew by the signs and the sounds that it was only through a mighty effort that young Van Cortlandt, grown man as he was, could keep himself from hysterical sobs and tears.

Not then, but the next day it was that Quonab said: “It comes to some after they kill, to some before, as it came to you, Rolf; to me it came the day I killed my first chipmunk, that time when I stole my father's medicine.”

They had ample work for several hours now, to skin the game and save the meat. It was fortunate they were so near home. A marvellous change there was in the atmosphere of the camp. Twice Quonab spoke to Van Cortlandt, as the latter laboured with them to save and store the meat of his moose. He was rubbed, doped, soiled, and anointed with its flesh, hair, and blood, and that night, as they sat by their camp fire, Skookum arose, stretched, yawned, walked around deliberately, put his nose in the lawyer's hand, gave it a lick, then lay down by his feet. Van Cortlandt glanced at Rolf, a merry twinkle was in the eyes of both. “It's all right. You can pat Skookum now, without risk of being crippled. He's sized you up. You are one of us at last;” and Quonab looked on with two long ivory rows a-gleaming in his smile.

Chapter 64. Dinner at the Governor's

Was ever there a brighter blazing sunrise after such a night of gloom? Not only a deer, but the biggest of all deer, and Van himself the only one of the party that had ever killed a moose. The skin was removed and afterward made into a hunting coat for the victor. The head and horns were carefully preserved to be carried back to Albany, where they were mounted and still hang in the hall of a later generation of the name. The final days at the camp were days of happy feeling; they passed too soon, and the long-legged lawyer, bronzed and healthy looking, took his place in their canoe for the flying trip to Albany. With an empty canoe and three paddles (two and one half, Van said), they flew down the open stretch of Jesup's River in something over two hours and camped that night fully thirty-five miles from their cabin. The next day they nearly reached the Schroon and in a week they rounded the great bend, and Albany hove in view.

How Van's heart did beat! How he did exult to come in triumph home, reestablished in health and strengthened in every way. They were sighted and recognized. Messengers were seen running; a heavy gun was fired, the flag run up on the Capitol, bells set a-ringing, many people came running, and more flags ran up on vessels.

A great crowd gathered by the dock.

“There's father, and mother too!” shouted Van, waving his hat.

“Hurrah,” and the crowd took it up, while the bells went jingle, jangle, and Skookum in the bow sent back his best in answer.

The canoe was dragged ashore. Van seized his mother in his arms, as she cried: “My boy, my boy, my darling boy! how well you look. Oh, why didn't you write? But, thank God, you are back again, and looking so healthy and strong. I know you took your squills and opodeldoc. Thank God for that! Oh, I'm so happy! my boy, my boy! There's nothing like squills and God's blessing.”

Rolf and Quonab were made to feel that they had a part in it all. The governor shook them warmly by the hand, and then a friendly voice was heard: “Wall, boy, here ye air agin; growed a little, settin' up and sassin' back, same as ever.” Rolf turned to see the gigantic, angular form and kindly face of grizzly old Si Sylvanne and was still more surprised to hear him addressed “senator.”

“Yes,” said the senator, “one o' them freak elections that sometimes hits right; great luck for Albany, wa'nt it?”

“Ho,” said Quonab, shaking the senator's hand, while Skookum looked puzzled and depressed.

“Now, remember,” said the governor, addressing the Indian, the lad, and the senator, “we expect you to dine tonight at the mansion; seven o'clock.”

Then the terror of the dragon conventionality, that guards the gate and hovers over the feast, loomed up in Rolf's imagination. He sought a private word with Van. “I'm afraid I have no fit clothes; I shan't know how to behave,” he said.

“Then I'll show you. The first thing is to be perfectly clean and get a shave; put on the best clothes you have, and be sure they're clean; then you come at exactly seven o'clock, knowing that every one is going to be kind to you and you're bound to have a good time. As to any other 'funny-do' you watch me, and you'll have no trouble.”

So when the seven o'clock assemblage came, and guests were ascending the steps of the governor's mansion, there also mounted a tall, slim youth, an easy-pacing Indian, and a prick-eared, yellow dog. Young Van Cortlandt was near the door, on watch to save them any embarrassment. But what a swell he looked, cleanshaven, ruddy, tall, and handsome in the uniform of an American captain, surrounded by friends and immensely popular. How different it all was from that lonely cabin by the lake.

A butler who tried to remove Skookum was saved from mutilation by the intervention first of Quonab and next of Van; and when they sat down, this uncompromising four-legged child of the forest ensconced himself under Quonab's chair and growled whenever the silk stockings of the footman seemed to approach beyond the line of true respect.

Young Van Cortlandt was chief talker at the dinner, but a pompous military man was prominent in the company. Once or twice Rolf was addressed by the governor or Lady Van Cortlandt, and had to speak to the whole table; his cheeks were crimson, but he knew what he wanted to say and stopped when it was said, so suffered no real embarrassment.

After what seemed an interminable feast of countless dishes and hours' duration, an extraordinary change set in. Led by the hostess, all stood up, the chairs were lifted out of their way, and the ladies trooped into another room; the doors were closed, and the men sat down again at the end next the governor.

Van stayed by Rolf and explained: “This is another social custom that began with a different meaning. One hundred years ago, every man got drunk at every formal dinner, and carried on in a way that the ladies did not care to see, so to save their own feelings and give the men a free rein, the ladies withdrew. Nowadays, men are not supposed to indulge in any such orgy, but the custom continues, because it gives the men a chance to smoke, and the ladies a chance to discuss matters that do not interest the men. So again you see it is backed by common sense.”

This proved the best part of the dinner to Rolf. There was a peculiar sense of over-politeness, of insincerity, almost, while the ladies were present; the most of the talking had been done by young Van Cortlandt and certain young ladies, assisted by some very gay young men and the general. Their chatter was funny, but nothing more. Now a different air was on the group; different subjects were discussed, and by different men, in a totally different manner.

“We've stood just about all we can stand,” said the governor, alluding to an incident newly told, of a British frigate boarding an American merchant vessel by force and carrying off half her crew, under presence that they were British seamen in disguise. “That's been going on for three years now. It's either piracy or war, and, in either case, it's our duty to fight.”

“Jersey's dead against war,” said a legislator from down the river.

“Jersey always was dead against everything that was for the national good, sir,” said a red-faced, puffy, military man, with a husky voice, a rolling eye, and a way of ending every sentence in “sir.”

“So is Connecticut,” said another; “they say, 'Look at all our defenceless coasts and harbour towns.'”

“They're not risking as much as New York,” answered the governor, “with her harbours all the way up the Hudson and her back door open to invasion from Canada.”

“Fortunately, sir, Pennyslvania, Maryland, and the West have not forgotten the glories of the past. All I ask—is a chance to show what we can do, sir. I long for the smell of powder once more, sir.”

“I understand that President Madison has sent several protests, and, in spite of Connecticut and New Jersey, will send an ultimatum within three months. He believes that Britain has all she can manage, with Napoleon and his allies battering at her doors, and will not risk a war.

“It's my opinion,” said Sylvanne; “that these English men is too pig-headed an' ornery to care a whoop in hell whether we get mad or not. They've a notion Paul Jones is dead, but I reckon we've got plenty of the breed only waitin' a chance. Mor'n twenty-five of our merchantmen wrecked each year through being stripped of their crews by a 'friendly power.' 'Pears to me we couldn't be worse off going to war, an' might be a dum sight better.”

“Your home an' holdings are three hundred safe miles from the seacoast,” objected the man from Manhattan.

“Yes, and right next Canada,” was the reply.

“The continued insults to our flag, sir, and the personal indignities offered to our people are even worse than the actual loss in ships and goods. It makes my blood fairly boil,” and the worthy general looked the part as his purple jowl quivered over his white cravat.

“Gosh all hemlock! the one pricks, but t'other festers, it's tarnal sure you steal a man's dinner and tell him he's one o' nature's noblemen, he's more apt to love you than if you give him five dollars to keep out o' your sight,” said Sylvanne, with slow emphasis.

“There's something to be said on the other side,” said the timid one. “You surely allow that the British government is trying to do right, and after all we must admit that that Jilson affair resected very little credit on our own administration.”

“A man ken make one awful big mistake an' still be all right, but he can't go on making a little mistake every day right along an' be fit company for a clean crowd,” retorted the new senator.

At length the governor rose and led the way to the drawing-room, where they rejoined the ladies and the conversation took on a different colour and weight, by which it lost all value for those who knew not the art of twittering persiflage and found less joy in a handkerchief flirtation than in the nation's onward march. Rolf and Quonab enjoyed it now about as much as Skookum had done all the time.

Chapter 65. The Grebes and the Singing Mouse

Quonab puzzled long over the amazing fact that young Van Cortlandt had evident high standing “in his own tribe.” “He must be a wise counsellor, for I know he cannot fight and is a fool at hunting,” was the ultimate decision.

They had a final interview with the governor and his son before they left. Rolf received for himself and his partner the promised one hundred and fifty dollars, and the hearty thanks of all in the governor's home. Next, each was presented with a handsome hunting knife, not unlike the one young Van had carried, but smaller. Quonab received his with “Ho—” then, after a pause, “He pull out, maybe, when I need him.”—“Ho! good!” he exclaimed, as the keen blade appeared.

“Now, Rolf,” said the lawyer, “I want to come back next year and bring three companions, and we will pay you at the same rate per month for each. What do you say?”

“Glad to have you again,” said Rolf: “we'll come for you on August fifteenth; but remember you should bring your guitar and your spectacles.”

“One word,” said the governor, “do you know the canoe route through Champlain to Canada?”

“Quonab does.”

“Could you undertake to render scout service in that region?”

The Indian nodded.

“In case of war, we may need you both, so keep your ears open.”

And once more the canoe made for the north, with Quonab in the stern and Skookum in the bow.

In less than a week they were home, and none too soon; for already the trees were bare, and they had to break the ice on the river before they ended their trip.

Rolf had gathered many ideas the last two-months. He did not propose to continue all his life as a trapper. He wanted to see New York. He wanted to plan for the future. He needed money for his plans. He and Quonab had been running a hundred miles of traps, but some men run more than that single handed. They must get out two new lines at once, before the frost came. One of these they laid up the Hudson, above Eagle's Nest; the other northerly on Blue Mountain, toward Racquet River. Doing this was hard work, and when they came again to their cabin the robins had gone from the bleak and leafless woods; the grouse were making long night flights; the hollows had tracks of racing deer; there was a sense of omen, a length of gloom, for the Mad Moon was afloat in the shimmering sky; its wan light ghasted all the hills.

Next day the lake was covered with thin, glare ice; on the glassy surface near the shore were two ducks floundering. The men went as near as they could, and Quonab said, “No, not duck, but Shingebis, divers. They cannot rise except from water. In the night the new ice looks like water; they come down and cannot rise. I have often seen it.” Two days after, a harder frost came on. The ice was safe for a dog; the divers or grebes were still on its surface. So they sent Skookum. He soon returned with two beautiful grebes, whose shining, white breast feathers are as much prized as some furs.

Quonab grunted as he held them up. “Ugh, it is often so in this Mad Moon. My father said it is because of Kaluskap's dancing.”

“I don't remember that one.”

“Yes, long ago. Kaluskap felt lazy. He wanted to eat, but did not wish to hunt, so he called the bluejay and said: 'Tell all the woods that to-morrow night Kaluskap gives a new dance and teaches a new song,' and he told the hoot owl to do the same, so one kept it up all day—'Kaluskap teaches a new dance to-morrow night,' and the other kept it up all night: 'Kaluskap teaches a new song at next council.'

“Thus it came about that all the woods and waters sent their folk to the dance.

“Then Kaluskap took his song-drum and said: 'When I drum and sing you must dance in a circle the same way as the sun, close your eyes tightly, and each one shout his war whoop, as I cry “new songs”!'

“So all began, with Kaluskap drumming in the middle, singing:

“'New songs from the south, brothers, Close your eyes tightly, brothers, Dance and learn a new song.

“As they danced around, he picked out the fattest, and, reaching out one hand, seized them and twisted their necks, shouting out, 'More war-cries, more poise! that's it; now you are learning!'

“At length Shingebis the diver began to have his doubts and he cautiously opened one eye, saw the trick, and shouted: 'Fly, brothers, fly! Kaluskap is killing us!'

“Then all was confusion. Every one tried to escape, and Kaluskap, in revenge, tried to kill the Shingebis. But the diver ran for the water and, just as he reached the edge, Kaluskap gave him a kick behind that sent him half a mile, but it knocked off all his tail feathers and twisted his shape so that ever since his legs have stuck out where his tail was, and he cannot rise from the land or the ice. I know it is so, for my father, Cos Cob, told me it was true, and we ourselves have seen it. It is ever so. To go against Kaluskap brings much evil to brood over.”

A few nights later, as they sat by their fire in the cabin, a curious squeaking was heard behind the logs. They had often heard it before, but never so much as now. Skookum turned his head on one side, set his ears at forward cock. Presently, from a hole 'twixt logs and chimney, there appeared a small, white breasted mouse.

Its nose and ears shivered a little; its black eyes danced in the firelight. It climbed up to a higher log, scratched its ribs, then rising on its hind legs, uttered one or two squeaks like those they had heard so often, but soon they became louder and continuous:

“Peg, peo, peo, peo, peo, peo, peo, oo. Tree, tree, tree, tree, trrrrrrr, Turr, turr, turr, tur, tur, Wee, wee, wee, we”—

The little creature was sitting up high on its hind legs, its belly muscles were working, its mouth was gaping as it poured out its music. For fully half a minute this went on, when Skookum made a dash; but the mouse was quick and it flashed into the safety of its cranny.

Rolf gazed at Quonab inquiringly.

“That is Mish-a-boh-quas, the singing mouse. He always comes to tell of war. In a little while there will be fighting.”